


The Episode

by NB_Cecil



Series: Doctors and Lizards [18]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Angst, CSA, Child Abuse, Established Garak/Parmak, Freeform, Hallucinations, Hearing Voices, Intersex, Intersex Character, Intersex!Parmak, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Parent/Child Incest, Parmak’s Dark Past Explored, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon Cardassia, Rape, Self Harm, Sickfic, Tain Is Awful. Really Awful, psychotic episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 07:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NB_Cecil/pseuds/NB_Cecil
Summary: Post-canon Cardassia, six months into the rebuilding effort, Garak experiences a psychotic episode.CONTENT WARNINGS: mental illness; hallucinations; delusions; intersexphobia; self-harm; child abuse; CSA.





	The Episode

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the content warning in the summary and proceed with caution. Potentially disturbing stuff ahead.

She sits on the floor just behind Kelas’s chair in Elim’s line of sight every time he looks up at his companion, twisting the hem of her tattered red dress in her hand and grinning at him. Elim plasters on his blandest smile and moves a flank of _kotra_ pieces to the easterly side of the board, cutting off Kelas’ main supply line.

“Do you really think he’ll want you once you’ve told him about Uncle Enabran?”

She is still the age Elim was when he first saw her, that first time Tain locked him in the closet on his tenth birthday. He had scrubbed his face so hard on his sleeve trying to rid himself of the lingering feel of Uncle Enabran’s probing lips and tongue that the skin around his mouth had turned red and sore. Once he had cried himself out and lay curled in a foetal position in the dark on the bare floorboards she made her presence known, pressing cool fingertips to his _chufa_ and saying simply, _Do your chores, Elim_ , and Elim had called out to Uncle Enabran that he had learned his lesson and was ready to do his chores now. She had sat on the table, staring, twisting the hem of her red dress in her hand and grinning while Elim _did his chores_.

 _I won’t tell him about Tain, I’ll tell him about you._ Elim thinks.

Kelas cocks a browridge and attacks Elim’s lines over to the west, punching through.

“You left them exposed.” She comments. Elim glares at her.

“Kelas,” Elim leans back on the sofa, pressing his fingertips together, “I am unwell. Do you happen to have any _treptaline_ please?”

“Elim, _suthoss_ ,” Kelas rises from his chair and moves to sit beside Elim on the sofa, “ _Treptaline_ is an antipsychotic.” 

“Look at his face. He hates you now. Can you see it?” She is occupying the chair Kelas has vacated, swinging her legs over the edge of the seat. Elim ignores her.

“I see all those years of medical training weren’t wasted on you, my dear.” Elim says brightly.

“Why do you need an antipsychotic?” Kelas asks gently, taking Elim’s hands in his own, careful not to jostle the bandage protecting his left palm.

She lifts the hem of her dress and grins lewdly, pushing two fingers inside her _ajan_. Elim turns his gaze away, focussing on the small circles Kelas’ thumb is tracing over the backs of his fingers.

“ _He_ liked them young,” She leers, “But _you_ had to go and get your neckridges and adult scales.”

 _I silenced you before and I’ll do it again now._ Elim thinks. Aloud, he says—

“The voice I hear in my head has become unhelpful and I wish to control it.” He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. “And there’s also the matter of my delusions,” He holds up his bandaged left hand, “They have become...” He sighs, “...A problem.”

“Not a ‘gardening accident’, then?” Kelas asks.

“No,” Elim admits, “I believed someone had operated on me while I slept, replacing my hand with an artificial one. I cut it to test my belief and it turns out I was mistaken.”

“You tell yourself you’re not like him,” She is standing beside the _kotra_ board now, hand moving steadily under her dress, “And yet here you are with this _man_ whose neck ridges are barely there at all!”

Elim lunges at her. Kelas catches him around the shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Elim holds his hands up in a gesture of submission, “My hallucinations really are becoming quite unbearable.”

“ _Suthossem_ , have you taken _treptaline_ before?” Kelas asks, rubbing soothing circles with his palm on Elim’s back.

“Can we even call him a ‘man’?” She is back on the chair now, lounging and twisting them hem of her dress again. “He has such delicate, child-like features. What is he anyway?”

“Yes, 10 CC’s daily when I was on _DS9_.” Elim hisses through gritted teeth.

“Any adverse side-effects?” Kelas enquires.

“Weight gain, drowsiness, irritability.” Elim lists. “All far preferable to the symptoms I am experiencing now.”

“No mood swings?”

“You mean, was I more violent than normal? No.”

“Headaches? Seizures?”

“I had a few seizures, but Doctor Bashir attributed them to my claustrophobia and the wire in my head, not the drug.”

“Okay.” Kelas leans forward and presses his forehead to Elim’s. “I’d like to contact Doctor Bashir and ask for your medical notes, but it’s late now and I’ll need to go to Tarlak to get a comm connection. I can do it tomorrow, but in the meantime I’m happy to give you a dose tonight on the condition that you stay with me so I can monitor you. Does that sound alright?”

Elim sighs and nods. He reaches into his boot.

“Stab him.” She is sitting in Kelas’s lap. “Aim for my _chuva_ and you’ll go right through me and under his ribs.”

Elim withdraws a small, sheathed knife from his boot.

“Will you look after this for me please, dear?” He offers it, handle first, to Kelas.

“Of course.” Kelas takes the knife and rises from the sofa. “Shall we visit my consulting room?”

——

In the consulting room, a small office partitioned off from the main living space of Kelas’s house, Kelas locks the knife in the top drawer of his desk and turns to unlock a medicine cabinet. 

While the doctor is rummaging for the _treptaline_ and loading the hypo she sits on the desk, reaching through its wooden surface and into the locked drawer below. She pulls out the knife, tosses the sheath aside and examines the blade.

“It’s sharp.” She observes, making a horizontal cut to her upper arm. “Remember how Uncle Enabran used to cut you like this?” Another cut below the first. “When you didn’t do your _chores_?” A third cut. “And now you can’t let _him_ —“ She indicates Kelas’s back with the point of the knife “—See you naked.” She cuts vertically across the original cuts, making a lattice pattern. Blood drips onto a pile of papers on the desk.

 _She’ll be silent soon._ Elim reminds himself.

“Sit down please _suthoss_.” Kelas, hypospray in hand, indicates a chair. He lists side-effects and asks Elim to tell him immediately should he experience any of them.

Elim nods and angles he head, exposing his neck ready for the injection.

There’s a soft hiss as Kelas presses the hypo against his skin.

She wipes the knife on her dress, smearing dark blood over the fabric, and returns it to its place in the drawer.

“He hides the key in the old cracked teapot when he sleeps at night.” She informs Elim, smiling beguilingly.

“Thank you dear.“ Elim squeezes Kelas’s shoulder gratefully. “I’d be most grateful if you’d find a new place to keep that key. I know about the teapot.”

“Of course, _suthoss_.” Kelas pulls him close and drops a kiss on the top of his head.

——

She sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, still grinning and twisting the hem of her dress, but mercifully silent.

 _This is a definite improvement._ Elim thinks, adjusting the neck of his borrowed pyjama shirt so it doesn’t irritate his scales. He can hear Kelas washing dishes in the kitchen.

Kelas braces his hands against the sink as the sobbing overcomes him. Once the _treptaline_ had quietened Elim sufficiently Kelas had unwound the blood-soaked bandage, cleaned and stitched the cuts on Elim’s palm, and wrapped his hand in a fresh bandage. As he worked Elim had described the ten-year-old child who had accompanied him for most of his life, commenting and offering advice—mostly benignly—on Elim’s thoughts and actions. Elim is not the doctor’s first patient to present with such symptoms, but he is the first for whom Kelas has treated—rather than induced—hallucinations. Employment as Tain’s personal physician had been more than monitoring the head of the _Order_ ’s blood pressure; Kelas regrets much from that chapter of his life, not least his complicity in torture.

Once the sobbing subsides Kelas dries the dishes, bags up all the knives and sharp objects, and carries them to his consultation room where he locks them in a medicine cabinet. He sits at his desk, shuffles papers absently, sighing to himself, knowing he’s avoiding going to check on Elim because his condition is stirring up uncomfortable memories of a past Kelas really would rather forget, knowing he’s being irresponsible leaving him alone for so long. He picks up a pencil and rolls in between his fingers.

“So, Doctor Parmak. Where’s your professionalism?” He asks aloud.

Sighing, he pushes the pencil into his plaited hair for safekeeping and stands. On his way to the sleeping area he pops the key behind a volume of Iloja of Prim’s poetry on the bookshelf.

——

Elim is curled on his side, breathing regular and deep, duvet pulled tight around him. Kelas presses two fingers to the sleeping man’s neck, satisfying himself that his pulse is sufficiently steady. He changes into his pyjamas as quietly as possible and undoes his plait, pulling out several pencils and a data rod he has accumulated in his hair throughout the day and places them on the bedside table. He combs oil from a small bottle through his hair and re-plaits it. Elim shifts and smiles in his sleep as Kelas sits on the bed. 

“Goodnight _suthoss_.” Kelas pets Elim’s head fondly, fumbles for the light switch and slips into bed beside him.

——

Elim sits up in bed biting his knuckles where they protrude above the bandage. 

“He hates you now.” She stands by the screen separating Kelas’s sleeping area from the main living area. 

“The evidence suggests otherwise, my dear.” Elim inclines his head toward Kelas’s sleeping form beside him.

“He’s only here because sleeping on the sofa would have hurt his back.”

Elim’s sharp incisor breaks the skin and a trickle of blood runs down his hand.

“It’s still my hand.” He observes.

‘’An illusion.” She waves a hand dismissively. “If you look closely you can see the join at the wrist.”

“How would you know?” Elim challenges.

“I looked while you were sleeping.” She smirks, fingering the dark scabs on her arm where she took the knife to it the night before.

“Stop that.” Elim snaps. She grins and comes closer to the bed.

He pulls up the threadbare sleeve of his pyjama top and twists his forearm side-to-side trying to get the best angle to see clearly in the thin dawn light. _Yes, there appears to be a join_. He hurriedly pulls the cuff back down. _Best not to let her see_. He brings his fist back to his mouth and bites a neat row of small incisions on each finger, the tang of blood on his tongue. 

She is standing by Kelas’s side of the bed now, looking down at his face. 

“Such delicate features.” She murmurs, slipping a hand under her dress.

“ _Please..._ ” Elim implores.

“Like a child really.”

“Leave him be.”

“Tain would have liked him.”

She withdraws her hand from under her dress, fingers slicked. Elim can _smell_ her.

“Stop. Please.” Elim worries at a knuckle with his teeth.

“Is that why _you_ like him?” She extends her hand slowly toward Kelas’s face. “Like father, like son?”

“ _No!_ ” Elim lunges for her, grabbing at thin air and collapsing onto Kelas.

“What...?” Kelas pushes Elim off him and sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

She skips off, laughing, behind the screen.

“I’m sorry.” Elim whimpers, curling into a ball. “I—” He breaks off, sobbing.

“It’s ok, _suthoss_.” Kelas wraps his arms around Elim. “Was it the girl again?”

Elim sniffles but doesn’t answer. Kelas notices Elim’s hand and the blood on the sheet and around Elim’s mouth. He sighs.

“What happened here?” He takes Elim’s hand in his own. No response. “Alright,” He sighs again, “I’ll get you another dose of _treptaline_ and make us some tea and then we’re going to Tarlak to get a comm signal and talk to your Doctor Bashir. 

——

Sipping _gelat_ from a battered steel mug, Kelas keeps an eye on his PADD as he listens to Elim’s valiant attempt at tearing down one of Kelas’s favourite poems. He can tell the other man’s heart’s not in it, but he loves him for trying nonetheless. The PADD screen flickers on. A message and a file.

_Downloading: 0.2% complete_

__

*****

__

Dr Parmak,

__

Here with patient Garak’s medical records. 

__

Regards,

__

Dr Julian Bashir, CMO Deep Space 9

__

_*****_

Kelas reads the message and swipes back to the progress bar. _0.3%_. He sighs. They’re going to be here a while. The gelata house is noisy and it’s giving him a headache.

“You’re not listening to me.” Elim smirks across the table, picking at the dressing on his hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. _Please_ leave the bandage alone.” Kelas chides.

“I need to see what’s underneath it, doctor.” 

“You know what’s underneath it.”

They’ve had a similar conversation twice already.

“Do I?” Elim asks.

“Yes. It’s your hand.” Kelas removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying not to let his exasperation show.

“That’s not what _she_ says.” Elim inclines his head indicating the empty chair beside Kelas.

“And what does _she_ say?” 

“She says it’s _perek_.” Elim peels the edge of the bandage back from his fingers. “And she’s right.” He waves his hand in front of Kelas’s face.

“It looks like a hand to me.” Kelas catches the flailing hand and gently pulls the bandage back over the fingers. “Why would it be flowers, anyway?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Elim smiles enigmatically. “You see, the change of metre in the final stanza disrupts the flow of the piece overall, rendering it a substandard example of the genre.”

“What...? Oh, the poem.” Kelas silently thanks the Elders for snapping Elim out of his fixation on his hand. “You’re wrong. You see Iloja abandons the arcane form of the preceding stanzas to emphasise the shock of discovering her son died because of a clerical oversight and not heroically defending Cardassia as she had been led to believe. This is where her faith in the State as perfect and benign, caring for its people and never making mistakes is shaken to its core. It’s her moment of epiphany. She sees the propaganda for what it truly is: a fantasy built on lies.”

“And that’s why they replaced my hand with _perek_ , dear.” Elim concludes.

Kelas glances down at his PADD. _38.6%_.

“It’s still your hand _suthoss_.”

——

File downloaded safely to Kelas’s PADD, they walk back via Tor.

Kelas leaves Elim picking _aramanth_ flowers from a scraggly bush pushing its way up from the cracked paving and ascends a dimly lit staircase to the attic flat inhabited by a teenager who has become his informal apprentice.

He leans on his cane, rubbing his right thigh as he waits for Letai to answer the door, wishing he’d thought to take a painkiller before leaving the house. She gestures for him to come in, bouncing her infant sibling Pelu on her hip to soothe them. 

“I can’t stop,” Kelas shrugs apologetically, “Mister Garak is... unwell... and I can’t leave him alone.” He holds out a data rod.

“House calls?” Letai asks.

“Yes, please.” Kelas hands the rod over. “Five. Addresses and notes are all on here. Can Arati watch Pelu for you?”

“She won’t be back until late, but I’ll manage.”

“Sorry.” 

Since Letai’s sister had been recruited as one of Cardassia City’s new police constables most of the care of their sibling has fallen to Letai. Kelas feels doubly guilty for bothering her on what is supposed to be her day off.

“It shouldn’t be anything you can’t handle. Any problems come and find me at home, ok?”

“Sure thing Doctor Parmak.” Letai smiles brightly. “I do hope Mister Garak gets better soon.”

“Me too, but I fear it may take a while.” 

Kelas bows and leaves.

Outside he finds Elim sitting on the pavement, bandage and dressings discarded on the pavement, poking at the stitches on his palm with an _aramanth_ thorn.

“ _Suthossem_.” Kelas tuts. Leave it be, please.

——

After careful perusal of Bashir’s notes Kelas prescribes a higher daily dose of _treptaline_ and copies out a list of twelve drugs—some psychiatric, some painkillers, and one experimental Cardassian drug designed for soldiers—Elim has had adverse reactions to and tapes it inside the door of a medicine cabinet.

The girl retreats to shadows and corners, speaking less. When she does speak it’s mostly restricted to narrating Elim’s actions and the occasional suggestion that Elim pay Kelas a compliment or perform some small care-giving task for him, such as bringing a pot of _ettaberry_ tea to the consulting room at the end of a long afternoon of appointments. Elim is grateful to her for reminding him to appreciate and take care of Kelas and when he’s alone he tells her so.

One day she appears in a new navy blue dress, her hair intricately plaited. Elim is so surprised at this that he speaks to her in front of Kelas and Letai. Until now she had always worn the tattered red dress with her hair an unruly mess. 

“What’s the occasion?” Elim asks.

“Hmm?” Kelas looks up from his PADD. 

“Ah, hallucination.” Elim gestures to the dining table where the girl sits, swinging her legs, examining Kelas’s face intently.

Letai scoops up Pelu and disappears into the consulting room. 

“There’s some filing I should do...” She excuses herself as she disappears round the door.

“People get lines round their eyes when they smile a lot.” The girl says, reaching a hand toward Kelas’s face. “See here? He has them.”

“She has a new dress.” Elim explains.

“You should remember to be kind to him.” She hops down from the table and stands opposite Elim, raising her palm. Elim bends down to press his palm to her’s. 

“I will, dear. Thank you.”

She pauses at the door to turn back and give Elim a wave. 

“I’ll come back if you need me.” She calls out as she slides through the transparent aluminium.

“She’s... gone.” Elim turns to Kelas with a sigh.

Kelas rises from his seat at the table and takes Elim in his arms.

“How do you feel about that, _suthoss_?”

“Sad,” Elim presses his forehead to Kelas’s, “But it’s time for her to leave me.”

“I’m proud of you, Elim.” 

“Thank you, dear. Some tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

——

Elim sits on the sofa with Kelas sitting on a low stool between his feet, combing oil through Kelas’s damp hair. Kelas waves the book he’s been reading in exasperation.

“This is drivel!” He exclaims.

“And what about it is ‘drivel’, dear?” 

“This entire page is just a long, detailed description of a minor character’s dress.”

“Don’t you find the outfits interesting?”

“No, I don’t. They’re irrelevant to the plot.”

“You have no appreciation for fashion.” Elim teases. “That much is evident in your choice of cardigan.” He pinches the fabric at Kelas’s shoulder by way of example.

“What’s wrong with my cardigan?” Kelas grumbles. “This is one of my favourites.”

“Where do I begin?” Elim gesticulates with the comb in his excitement. “It’s baggy, shapeless, there’s a hole in the elbow, and that insipid shade of brown washes your skin tone out.”

“You neglected to mention it’s warm, comfy and it hangs halfway down my thighs, all features I’m very fond of.” Kelas replies. “Perhaps you’ll darn the elbow for me?”

“Perhaps I will,” Elim concedes, “If you leave it out on the chair I’ll take it home with me tomorrow and fix it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been fleshing out my headcanon for Parmak. Some of how I imagine him can be seen here.
> 
> Thanks to Tinsnip’s Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobioligy (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479)


End file.
